


For Kingdom and Glory

by MsThunderFrost



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Comfort Sex, Episode: s01e06 Rare Species, Established Relationship, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hand Jobs, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Massage, Men Crying, Nausea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:47:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23424985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsThunderFrost/pseuds/MsThunderFrost
Summary: For this prompt:Jaskier knows that, unfortunately, there are times when violence is necessary. He's courting a Witcher -- bloodshed and death just come with the territory. But it does help that Geralt has a certain level of respect for all creation -- he doesn't like to shed innocent blood, and he only slays those monsters that have taken innocent lives.So when Sir Eyck kills that beast in Episode 6 on the way up the mountain, it's incredibly... traumatizing. Because there's absolutely no reason the creature had to die -- like Geralt says, it would've gone away if they'd shared some of their rations. And then Eyck makes a point of *eating* it and Jaskier can't take it anymore and leaves.Basically, I'm looking for some sweet comfort sex, with Jaskier thinking that Geralt is going to make fun of him for being soft and Geralt surprising him by coming out and admitting that he was bothered by the whole display as well. Maybe with Geralt feeding Jaskier some nuts or fruit (I imagine he'd be a bit put off by any sort of meat at the moment) because he needs to eat something and he shouldn't have to go back out to the fire and look at the remains?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 615
Collections: Witcher Kink Meme (Dreamwidth)





	For Kingdom and Glory

**Author's Note:**

> Words. Cannot. Describe. How. Much. I. Hate. Sir. Eyck.
> 
> I really wanted to write something for that scene, because it bothered me how everyone was very clearly disturbed by his actions, and yet no-one said anything -- not even after he mounted the creature on a spit and started eating it (except to warn him it'll make him sick, which is pretty much the equivalent of nothing *anyway*). So I was glad to see this prompt, and I hope I did it justice!

Jaskier honestly cannot remember the last time that he felt so  _ ill _ . 

He knows that he’s being dramatic. This is far from the first time he’s watched a monster cut down with ruthless, deadly efficiency, but… He swallows hard against the bile that burns in the back of his throat, the urge to retch washing over him in full-force as he recalls Geralt’s words. The creature was harmless, half-starved and  _ terrified _ . If they had just shared a bit of their rations, it never would’ve…

And then, to stick the poor creature on a  _ spit _ and serve it for dinner… Jaskier couldn’t take it. Kingdom and glory be damned, the  _ real _ monster was the sick bastard that could tear into an innocent creature for no reason other than foolhardy posturing. Jaskier doesn’t think that he will ever be able to look at food the same way again. Certainly not that night, or any in the near future that is spent on this gods-forsaken mountain. His stomach rumbles obscenely, and he moans, burying his face in the Witcher’s chest and silently praying that the world will  _ stop spinning _ . 

He didn’t think that Geralt would understand－or, worse, that he would think Jaskier weak for getting all misty-eyed over the fate of a creature who’d likely still be alive if he’d left well enough alone. But Geralt had been surprisingly… quiet, about the whole ordeal. He’d taken note of Jaskier’s distress around the campfire and had quietly ushered him away into their tent, and had listened as the bard damn-near hyperventilated over an explanation for the maelstrom of emotions bubbling up within him before pulling him into his chest in a tight embrace.

Geralt is the first to speak. He begins with a soft confession that brings fresh tears to Jaskier’s eyes, “Sooner or later, all things must die. It’s only natural.” His fingers dance along Jaskier’s spine, feeling the sharp cut of each of individual vertebrae, “The creature wouldn’t have lasted another week… perhaps a bit longer.”

“H-He…” Jaskier makes a high-pitched sound in the back of his throat, somewhere between a sob and a scream, “He  _ mutilated _ that p-poor creature, Geralt! He just k-kept  _ screaming _ as he  _ hacked _ away at it’s malnourished frame!”

“...I know.” He whispers, carding his fingers through Jaskier’s sweat-slick hair. “But there’s nothing that can be done for it now, little lark. Though it met a… gruesome end, you must remember that the creature was suffering.”

Jaskier sniffles, “Y-You wouldn’t have done that…”

“Kill the creature?” Geralt asks, confused. Because, in case Jaskier had already forgotten, he had been prepping to do just that before Sir Eyck had rushed in and… well… 

The bard trembles in his arms as he whispers, “You would’ve given it a merciful end. It wouldn’t h-have known  _ pain _ , or  _ f-fear _ …” Geralt reaches into his satchel, pulling out his water skin and encouraging Jaskier to take a few swallows to wet his parched, dry mouth. “E-Even if it would’ve died anyhow… it deserved b-better.”

The Witcher opens his mouth to speak, but at the last moment seems to think better of it, instead settling on a soft, “Hmm,” as he adjusts Jaskier in his arms and listens, carefully, to his breathing.

Geralt can admit that Sir Eyck’s actions had been… distressing. While it was true that he had had every intention of rushing in and saving Jaskier from his own stupidity, the knight had gone above and beyond. This was by no means the first time that Geralt had seen an innocent cut down for the sheer purpose of proving a point, nor was he under any delusion that this would be the last. Men like Sir Eyck, who were desperate for power and recognition, did not care about the number of bodies that were trampled underfoot along their path to glory. 

Just because he’d learned how to coexist alongside humans did not mean that he understood them－nor that he had any real desire to. What point was there in attempting to understand an entire race filled with the likes of Sir Eyck, a conglomeration of self-serving bastards who would smile to your face while taking a pick-axe to your back? It wasn’t until Jaskier came along that he started to think that  _ some _ of them may be worthwhile. And now… He shifts Jaskier in his arms, so that he can look into his teary blue eyes for the first time since  _ it _ happened.

How the hell is he supposed to tell this beautiful, radiant ray of sunshine that it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d provided the beast a swift, merciful death－the other members of their party would no doubt condemn him for being a Witcher, regardless. That, despite his horrific acts, nobody would dare speak against Sir Eyck because he is a knight－and a rather prestigious one, if Yennefer’s introduction was to be believed. 

It’s not right. It’s not fair. But it’s the way of the world, and it’s a reality that he has been forced to accept, in order to continue to be allowed to coexist with humans. 

He finds himself at an absolute loss for words that won’t break the bard’s heart, and so he decides on, “It’ll be easier if you try not to think on it.” He says, pressing a kiss to the bard’s temple… the gentle arch of his brow… over his teary eyelids… “I can help you to take your mind off of it, if you’d like.”

Jaskier sniffles, shivering in his embrace, “P-Please don’t feel like you have to－,” he reaches up to swipe at his eyes with the heel of his palm, “I can only imagine how g-gross I look right now…”

Geralt shakes his head, a few strands of silver-white hair spilling over his shoulder and tickling Jaskier’s face, causing the smaller man to laugh. “You’re beautiful.” He whispers.

“Pfft,” Jaskier hardly looks convinced, but he’s not about to turn down a compliment. “Flatterer.”

“I don’t make a habit out of saying things that I don’t mean.” Geralt counters lightly.

“...Just be gentle with me, alright?” Watery blue eyes flicker up to meet a sea of molten amber, “My stomach is still a little…  _ sensitive _ .” Geralt dips a hand between them, running his fingers over the soft flesh of Jaskier’s belly, contemplating. Then he hums softly, adjusting their positions so that Jaskier is resting comfortably on his side. 

Jaskier watches through heavy-lidded eyes as Geralt fiddles with his satchel, pulling out various vials of all different shapes and sizes, filled with brightly colored liquids (all of which were probably more poisonous than he cared to know) that glitter in the half-light of the setting sun. It doesn’t take him long to find one filled with a clear, slightly viscous liquid－he pops the cork with his teeth, causing Jaskier to wince, and begins pouring the vial’s contents over his fingers. A light, woodsy scent permeates the air. 

“What’s that?” He asks, as the Witcher motions for him to undo his doublet. He undresses slowly, just now realizing how tired the absolute overload of emotions has left him. 

“Angelica oil.” Geralt says. “Have you used it before?” He asks, and Jaskier shakes his head as he settles back down across Geralt’s legs. “Hmm… I’m surprised. You seem to have own every other type of oil known to man…” He keeps his tone light, almost teasing, as he settles his hands on Jaskier’s broad shoulders and begins to rub.

“Are you… Is this a…” Jaskier blinks, smacking his lips wetly. Why the fuck is he finding it so difficult to  _ speak _ all of a sudden? Surely, he cannot be  _ that _ tired. 

“It’s a massage.” Geralt confirms, his thick, sword-calloused fingers digging into the meat of Jaskier’s shoulders, slicking miles of pale, lightly freckled skin with the sweetly aromatic oil.

“...I must admit, this is not exactly what I was thinking when you suggested that you could take my mind off of the whole ordeal.” He says with a breathless little laugh. He sounds like he’s a bit unsure about what to do regarding this new development－Geralt, ever the gentleman, offers him an easy out. 

“I could… stop?” He suggests, mildly, attempting to make it clear that Jaskier is free to decide either way.

Jaskier’s blue eyes widen, “No. No. D-Don’t… There’s no need to  _ stop _ . I was  _ trying _ to say that I  _ liked _ it－I always knew that you were skilled with your hands, but this is… above and beyond.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up in what might be the beginnings of a smile, “Hmm.”

He takes Jaskier’s arms one at a time, beginning at the bicep and slowly, tenderly working his way down, reverently working at overly tight muscles until Jaskier is like putty in his hands, ready to be carefully molded into whatever shape he desires. His skin, baby soft despite the fine layer of coarse, dark hair that stretches across his chest and arms, looks utterly radiant by lantern light; the soft, red-orange flames dance across his pale flesh, lending it a delectable bronze coloring that usually takes him weeks of traveling beneath the unrelenting sun in the warmer months to achieve. Jaskier’s breath is slow and even, his sinfully long lashes fluttering as Geralt’s hands travel lower, tangling their fingers together to gently begin to work on his hand…

It’s not long before the sour stench of distress that had been oozing from Jaskier’s pores just a short while ago begins to dissipate. He is completely and utterly relaxed, allowing Geralt total control over his body… Geralt’s massive hands slink back up his arms, glide over his shoulders, and begin to move south, toward his pectorals. Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat as nimble fingers glide over his nipples, the barest hint of a dull fingernail catching on the hypersensitive buds… He draws in a sharp, trembling breath, arching into the delicate touch.

“Hmm… did you like that, little lark?” Geralt rumbles into his ear. He doesn’t wait for a response, circling back around to tease the dusky buds again, sending a bright spark of painful-pleasure coursing down Jaskier’s spine.

“T-That’s…  _ ah _ …” his back bends into a beautiful arch, one arm reaching back so that he might grab a fistful of Geralt’s loose black shirt as the Witcher slowly, methodically teases his nipples to aching hardness. Then, the vial is back－Jaskier can just make it out through pleasure-heavy eyes－and there is more oil dripping down his belly…

“Angelica oil,” Geralt begins, absently, as his hands travel lower, nimble fingers beginning to slowly massage his aching belly. Thin tendrils of pleasure curl within his lower abdomen, filling him with a heat that has everything and nothing to do with Geralt’s  _ closeness _ . “Is known for its rejuvenating, detoxifying effects.”

Is he… really about to educate Jaskier on the healing properties of his oil  _ right now _ ? “That’s…  _ w-wonderful _ .” The Witcher’s thick fingers tease circles around his belly button, stroking his over his skin with a light, firm pressure.

“Mmm… it truly is.” He can’t tell, but he thinks the Witcher is trying to stifle his laughter, “Did you know that it can－,”

“ _ Geralt _ ,” Jaskier gasps, breathless, “darling, dearest love, much as I love this newfound wordiness of yours… I am in desperate need of your…  _ wonderful touch _ … just a bit lower.”

Geralt snickers, “Lower, you say? Whatever for?”

“Oh, for the love of the gods,” he takes Geralt’s oil slick hand and directs it between his legs. 

Geralt’s rough, oil-slick fingers enclose around Jaskier’s cock, while his other hand continues to rub his belly in slow, lazy circles. Jaskier’s entire body is alight with pleasure, the earlier nausea almost entirely forgotten as Geralt masterfully works him over with those glorious hands. The rich, expensive fabric of his trousers is soon stained with oil and pre, but he can’t bring himself to care as Geralt’s hand tightens around him, treading the fine line between  _ too much _ and  _ not enough _ . A little voice in the back of his head tells him that he needs to reign it in－that a fabric tent is hardly soundproof, and they are far from alone in the middle of a forest－but every time he attempts to stifle his cries, Geralt is right there, a plethora of filthy promises falling from the Witcher’s lips if the bard will only  _ sing _ …

Tears of an entirely different sort gather in his cornflower blue eyes as Geralt pumps him, working him over with a sharp swiftness that still somehow managed to be amazingly  _ intimate _ . Jaskier’s orgasm washes over him like a tidal wave, slowly building… building… until it crashes over the shore, a magnificent and deadly force of nature. He feels so  _ safe _ , bound in Geralt’s massive arms, nestled away between his legs, doused in the other man’s scent, and soothed by his hands. Geralt brings him back down from the brink with the same careful, loving touch, stopping his massage just long enough to adjust their positions and clean Jaskier off with a cool, damp cloth. 

“...It bothered you too, didn’t it.” Jaskier muses, as Geralt resumes his earlier ministrations, pushing Jaskier’s ruined trousers down a bit so that he can access his hips.

He’s silent for a long moment, before his head bobs in what could’ve been mistaken for a nod. But seeing as Jaskier has his back to him and didn’t see his movement, he offers him a soft, “Hmm,” instead.

Jaskier is silent. He looks less green around the gills, and Geralt thinks, in a little while, he might try and convince him to eat some dried fruit－it would make an already horrible trip even more disastrous if he were to up and faint on the way up the mountain. “How long do you think it’s going to take for someone to slit the bastard’s throat?”

Geralt frowns, “ _ Jaskier _ .” 

“What?  _ I’m _ not going to do it. The whole business of murder is far too messy－and this is my last good doublet, see.” He says, sighing softly. “But surely, we cannot be the only ones hoping that Sir Eyck will just so happen to…  _ slip _ off the side of the mountain.” 

And surely, the bard must be feeling better if he is already planning out the intricacies of his enemy’s demise. He pretends to think on it for a moment, before shrugging, “If the meat from that creature doesn’t poison him first, I’d say he has until sundown.”

Sundown, as it turns out, is a conservative estimate. Eyck is found dead in the woods some two hours later, with his leggings down around his ankles. Jaskier takes one look at the body, before pressing close to the Witcher’s side, stuffing a handful of dried berries into his mouth, and remarking upon the lovely weather they were having for the time of year. Geralt rolls his eyes, and continues forward up the mountain. 


End file.
